Tag: Germaphobe

In preparation for the new season coming up, I am crack-addict binging on The Walking Dead, and all I’ve been thinking about is how I’d be dead on the very first day of a zombie apocalypse.

When the boyfriend and I got to the episode where the group makes it to Alexandria, I said, “OMG. How has Darryl not taken a shower yet? That’d be the first thing I’d do. And brush my teeth!”
(Now the running joke during every episode is: “Has Darryl taken a shower yet?”)

Indignantly, I protested, but when it came time to detail the myriad reasons he was wrong, I had nothing. Nada.

Holy shit. If there was ever a zombie apocalypse, I’d last precisely an hour, if that. I’d be that inept idiot in the first episode no one even remembers.

Since my asshole boyfriend was right (don’t tell him I said that, he’ll take it and run with it), I thought I’d share the reasons why I’d never last in a zombie apocalypse:

1. My asthma

I get out of breath walking around my classroom and talking at the same time. Really, I could just stop here. Asthma is reason enough for why I’d be one of the first people to be eaten alive by zombies.

It took me two months to get to the point where I could jog (and by jog, I mean move at a slightly quicker pace than walking) nonstop for two blocks. So, if the time ever came for me to run like my life depended on it for more than a minute, I’d be done just like that.

2. My sciatica

I first had a flare up with my sciatica when I was in middle school. The pain from my big ass all the way down my leg was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I recall barely making it out of the fast-paced school halls alive. Once home, I milked it for all it was worth-Advil around the clock, Mom’s special Home Sick Sherbet and Ginger Ale, and hand delivered meals.

It was simultaneously one of the best and worst times of my life.

Occasionally, my sciatica flares up and quick movements just ain’t happening. I tried to show off my sweet Tae Bo skills to my boyfriend the other night and I pulled a muscle and pissed off my sciatic nerve. And, just like that, I was infirm.

So, if my sciatica were ever to act up during the apocalypse, I wouldn’t be able to run or karate chop a zombie in the head. Anyone I’d be with would quickly realize what a dud I was and they’d leave me for dead as soon as they had a proper excuse. I mean, I wouldn’t blame them.

3. My acid reflux and digestion issues

I’m an absolute mess in the guts. If I ever run out of Tums, probiotics, Imodium, or acid reflux medicine, you might as well just leave me for dead.

Not only am I not exactly fit for zombie battle when my stomach acid coming up my esophagus feels like hellfire, my bowel movements when stressed could potentially attract a horde of zombies from miles away.

4. My germaphobe rituals

When you’re running for your life from zombies and terrible, evil people, warm running water and soap aren’t exactly a priority. Hand sanitizer would never be on the grocery list between water and food.

As such, I’d probably never make it to my first meal of road kill surprise. Not only would I have the hardest time not gagging while eating hastily cooked raccoon, I simply would not be able to eat with zombie brains under my finger nails.

Nope. Just leave me for dead. I couldn’t.

5. My beauty essentials/routine

And, let’s not forget the benefit to being appealing-looking and how that might aid in the continuation of one’s life. I would not be a looker after just a week without my electric razor, dry shampoo, and foundation.
I know that beauty is not exactly essential for survival, but when the broad with a beard and noxious gas needs your help again, you just might be tempted to leave her in the woods.

Honestly, I’m really disappointed in myself and quite terrified that I’ll never be a Carol or a Maggie, but an Idiot Girl-Episode 1.

So, do y’all have any tips for me to beef up my zombie survival skills? Or, am I a lost cause, so I should just keep doing what I do best-avoiding any and all physical exertion and marathon eating Skinny Cow desserts?

I went camping for the 4th of July weekend. As with everything that I get myself into, it was definitely not uneventful. Oh, no.

I’m going to surprise you all by saying I’m not a real tough-cowgirl-up kind of chick.

Shocking, I know.

First, I really hate to be dirty. Especially my feet. OMG. My feet. During the summer, when flip flops and sandals are standard, I soak, scrub, pumice, and moisturize my feet to the point of obsession.

I can’t get in bed knowing my feet have God-knows-what on them, and so help me if even the tiniest speck of dry skin catches on the sheets.

Ya’ll might as well commit me now.

I couldn’t even. It took everything in me to pretend this wasn’t bothersome!
Next, I positively hate being hot and sweaty. If I can avoid ever being overheated during the summer, I’ll do whatever needs to be done. If that means blasting my AC and having a fan directed at me 24/7, so be it. I’ll pay an exorbitant electric bill for the sake of comfort any day.

Eventually, though, I do have to venture outside and away from my comfortable 68 degrees. When this happens, swamp ass and underboob sweat is just inevitable. At some point during the summer, I just resign myself to the reality that I’m going to sweat from every crack and orifice, and I just have to deal.

Also, if I know getting to the bathroom is going to be a pain (i.e. needing to get dressed first, finding shoes in the dark, walking half a mile to the campsite toilet, etc.), I’ll have to go the bathroom precisely eight times in the night.

Lastly, I’m a germaphobe. If there isn’t running water wherever I find myself to wash my hands precisely every hour on the hour, forget it.

As I mentioned before, this past weekend we went camping. It was at a gorgeous campsite in California.

While there, the worst.possible.thing that could happen to a germaphobe happened.

My darling, one-of-kind, beloved boyfriend put the roll of toilet paper-the very roll he took into the Sani-Hut (and don’t even get me started on Porta Poops), and almost certainly set on the pee-soaked floor*- in my clothes bag.

JUST BURN IT ALL.

So, if you just ignore all of the above paranoias, I’m a real joy to be with out in the good ol’ outdoors.

Really.

I’m being serious.

Once I procure/figure out a way to wash my hands with actual soap, and if I just accept the fact that my face will be so greasy the bright sun will reflect off it all day long, I’m actually a real camping star.

I’m of the belief that if something unsavory (like cleaning toilets or setting up camp in 90-degree weather) needs to be done, it’s better to just do it right away and as quickly and efficiently as possible. I can set up a tent, cot, and camp stove in record time if it means I get to sit in the shade during the rest of the camping experience.

Also, I don’t complain too much. As long as I have s’mores and a summer beer to look forward to later, you will only hear me complain about the heat and my dirty feet a minimal amount of times.

Mmm. There ain’t anything better than a beer in the fresh mountain air!
This past weekend did not deviate from the norm. There was just a little bit of complaining, and a whole lot of loving-being-outside-of-the-city.

The part of this camping adventure I was most looking forward to was a swim in the pond, because I bought a donut floaty, and I simply couldn’t wait to flail my gorgeous bod atop it.

The float and swim was simply glorious. I’m a fat chick, but I also grew up going to a lake cabin every summer of my life. I can swim like a fucking majestic mermaid.

It wasn’t until exiting the water, that I questioned our decision to take a dip in a pretty questionable pond.

The great debate is still on going, because my boyfriend positively swears that what was all over my legs were little wormthings.

No, I don’t care that he dual majored in biology and microbiology, those little effers were leeches.

After positively freaking out and making him run back over the rocks in his bare feet to inspect and remove the vile creatures that were sucking my life blood straight out of my pudgy, translucent legs, my first thought was, “Where else are they?”

Me: “Are these like ticks?”

Him: “Uh, no. These worms aren’t anything like ticks.”

Me: “No, like, would they possibly be elsewhere on my body?”

Him: “OMG. You had one worm on your leg. The other thing was a twig or some dirt!”

Me: “Are you blind?! They were all over my legs!”

Him: *rolls eyes clear back into his skull* “OK. Sure. They were all over your legs…”

Me: “OK. So, could they possibly have found their way to other parts?”

Him: “No, babe. I highly doubt it.”

Me: “Are you sure? Because if water can go through my bathing suit, maybe tiny water monsters can go through my suit, too?”

Him: “OMFG.”

So, after I was reassured that the worms (leeches) almost certainly didn’t find themselves in my more delicate regions, I felt mentally stronger and more ready for the next camping obstacle I’d likely face (this time it was being eaten alive by mosquitos and the TP incident).

No more worms (leeches)!
The struggle is real for an outdoors-loving germaphobe freak.

*After making it clear my disgust with his dirty deed, he swore up and down that he nestled the TP roll in his underwear and that he most certainly did not put it on the poop-caked floor. I feel just a tiny bit better.

This past weekend, a good friend and I went to the Genoa Candy Dance. I had assumed that people would be dancing and throwing candy around. I mean, isn’t that what it sounds like it would be?? To my dismay, the Candy Dance was just a bunch of over-priced vendors and food trucks (apparently there is a dinner and dance event in the evening). The food truck part was, however, much appreciated. What I did really like about this event was that it was held in Nevada’s oldest town/settlement. For a history lover, it is a real damn shame that I had never been to Genoa before. I fully plan on visiting again sans tons of people pushing to get to a stall selling crocheted rabbits.

Can I just take a moment to express how much I hate porta-potties? My hate and disgust is so strong that I will directly avoid events where I know only shit boxes will be provided. Portable toilets are hot, putrid, foul places that I never, ever want to find myself in. Ever. Today, I had to use a poop house and it was horrible. It was so horrible. I want to describe my shitty (literally) ordeal for your reading pleasure, but first, I would like to share where I believe my fear of porta-potties came from.

When I was 15, I began dating a guy who was a total Creatine-head. He drove a ridiculous, embarrassingly huge truck, with stack pipes so big you had to know they represented what he so sorely lacked in his pants. He was a hot head and a fool. I was even more of a fool for dating him, but that’s another story or twelve. Anyways, I would accompany him and his family on camping trips out at Pyramid Lake during the summer. Anyone who knows Windless Bay beach, also knows that Windless Bay really means Wind So Strong It Blows Your Tent Into the Lake, Along With Your Sleeping Bag, and Favorite Down Feather Pillow. The wind at Pyramid Lake is like a big “Fuck You” to your ignorantly innocent belief your camping trip will be pleasant.

So, let’s recap, it’s fucking windy at Pyramid Lake. This particular beach also has two porta-potties for the entire beach. Two. How generous. It’s basically a germaphobe’s living nightmare. In case anyone wanted to know, wind and porta-potties aren’t the best of friends, especially so, when the porta-potty isn’t even anchored to the ground, in any way, shape, or form. I’m sure we have all inferred at this point that I had an unfortunate experience in a portable toilet at Pyramid Lake. Yes, I had to use a porta-poop in a wind storm and the experience has affected my mental stability since. I have Porta-Potty PTSD.

I don’t really want to get into how horrible the realization that you may, quite possibly, be in a porta-potty when it tips over, because I don’t have enough Xanex and bleach to erase the memory. Simply, I wouldn’t wish, even on Kanye West, the worry that the likelihood of being covered in other peoples’ poop is frighteningly high in such a situation. It was terrifying, let’s just leave it at that. However, the absolute best part was that my boyfriend, my walnut-for-a-brain boyfriend was outside the porta-potty, as my life was flashing before my eyes, and I was hastily asking God for forgiveness for all of my minor transgressions, shaking it. He was shaking the porta-potty. He was helping the wind along. He was shaking it like a big, dumb buffoon, laughing like a fool. I simultaneously wanted God to forgive me my sins and to kill another human being. When the horrific ride in the porta-poop finally came to an end, I mercilessly beat him over the head with a flip flop. I should have dumped him then and there, but I was D.U.M.B. at 15.

So, I am really not fond of porta-potties, but who is? I mean, I doubt there is a single person on this planet who seeks out these portable nightmares, because they get a kick out of the experience.

Today, at the Renaissance Faire (yes, I went to a Ren Faire, shut up), I mistakenly thought I could take my purse in the porta-potty. For anyone’s future reference, there is not a single square millimeter that is safe for you to touch, so why subject your precious purse to possible exposure to God-knows-what? So, I had to exit, apply half a bottle of hand sanitizer, and find my boyfriend to watch my purse. Upon my second attempt, I mistakenly looked in the hole! WHY IS THERE ALWAYS DIARRHEA? Does some asshole go around and diarrhea in every porta-potty he sees, or are the runs more of problem than I previously thought?

So, now comes the decision to brave sitting my naked, innocent ass on the vile seat or risk hovering and subsequently being splashed by the diarrhea. This decision stresses me out to the point I start to sweat profusely, and now I’ve been in a nasty, hotbox for far too long and I haven’t even done my business. I decide on hovering, because contact is just too terrifying. As I attempt to dodge the pee on the ground, while trying to not touch the front of the toilet seat with my pants, I notice my hair is almost in the urinal. It’s dangling IN THE URINAL.

I can’t even.

I almost just exit, mid-pee, with my pants around my knees. Scarring children for life, or the obvious embarrassment of exposing my hairy ass, seemed better at the moment than the sensory overload of nasty in that hell hole. As a serious germaphobe, these disgusting situations make me almost insane. It took me an hour to stop sweating and convulsing, and I’m still positive I’ve contracted syphilis.

Next time I find myself out in the woods, or at a concert, I’m holding it. I’m effing holding it.